


Under The Weight Of Living

by SatanInACroptop



Series: Carry It With No Regrets [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Peter is Peter and feelings are fucking terrible, Post season three, Survivor Guilt, actual maybe a decent human being Peter Hale, and some mutual issues, gay sex counselor Danny Mahealani, mildly horrified Scott McCall, super witty Isaac Lahey, this is a relationship built on sass and sarcasm, understanding friend Lydia Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatanInACroptop/pseuds/SatanInACroptop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is having trouble reconciling with the aftermath of the nogitsune. Namely the notion that if Allison were here, Stiles might well not be. Namely the heart stopping fear of what could happen to those still breathing if the next time he wakes up, someone else is opening his eyes for him.<br/>Fortunately, there is at least one soul in Beacon Hills with whom he can relate to.<br/>Sometimes a little bit of help can be found in the most unlikely of places, including the domicile of Peter Hale, and sometimes, a little bit of sanctuary is all it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Weight Of Living

**Author's Note:**

> If you are finding this from tumblr, you remember a very rough ficlet titled When I Wake Up, I'm Afraid. This is that fic, simply a million times better, title included.  
> Fic has been edited by moi, so all errors are my own dumb fault.

Exhaustion has nothing on Stiles Stilinski.

His father is home for once and sleeping soundly across the hall. The room is lit only barely by the glow of the obnoxious charging light on his laptop. But a tousled head of brown hair and sunken in brown eyes are currently counting dots on the ceiling in a desperate attempt to think of the most monotonous things possible. He's tried teas, he's tried reading his text books, he even tried going through random definitions on his phone.

Nothing really works. And it’s getting so bad that the days are starting to blur together to the point where the teenager can't even remember what class is first, let alone which homework assignment is due.

You would think this dance would be done by now. You would think that after weeks of this, of not being in control, of never resting for a moment, he would simply collapse. You would think Stiles would fall into sleep at once, safe and sound of mind.

But he can't sleep.

Stiles has lost count of how many nights he's gone like this. It's getting to the point where insomnia is now the norm, and sleep seems like a dream for the sane and blissfully ignorant.

The last time Stiles remembers falling asleep, it was in the hospital with Melissa. The last time he closed his eyes, he lost the war. And when he opened them for the first time, he had the deaths of his father's staff, of students, on his own two hands. The visceral memory of how much strength it took to twist the blade inside Scott's gut, the way it caught on his ribs and ground against bone. Clutching Lydia to him as the nogitsune killed Allison, and the feeling of her death giving the demon life, giving Stiles life.

Sometimes when his dad's at work and Scott's out with Kira, when Stiles texts him that he's fine, he's just studying for a test he has to make up still, he stares at his ceiling and wonders if he would have died that night if Allison had lived.

Those are the nights he gets up and spends sitting on her grave stone, talking to her as if she was sitting right next to him. He tells her that he'll look after Scott, that he'll make sure he settle down and finds someone worthy of him, someone she would approve of.

It's been almost a week of no sleep and Stiles can feel it edging up on him again, like the world itself is somehow pressing in physically to his skin and he can no longer filter it out. He catches stray hours here and there, when his Dad is in living room just across from him. It’s a comfort and a terror. If he's not himself again, his dad could be the first one he kills. He can only succumb to complete exhaustion before he's snapping awake again like a bow drawn taught.

Hyper vigilance is becoming a constant state of being, and Stiles doesn't need to do any research to know the toll its taken him on both mentally and physically. His friends are both polite and shaken, when he says he's fine, no one pushes. What else is Stiles supposed to say? That even divided, he could feel the Nogitsune's hunger? That he could feel every pain and death, and the pleasure it took in it? Stiles won't hurt anyone with this, he's caused enough harm already.

Though there is one person who he couldn't hurt if he tried.

When Stiles tore down the board, the mess of pictures and red thread that had actually become his own war with the thing living inside him, his desperate attempt to get one step ahead before he harmed anyone else, there was one piece that didn't fit. It’s his handwriting, of course, but it’s not him. It falls out when he tears down a photo for the car wreck where they first found Malia. There is no name, nothing but an address with no area code or town designator, but really, what are the odds?

He puts it into Google Earth and it comes back with a street view of an apartment in downtown Beacon Hills.

Stiles is never one to throw away perfectly useful information. Who knows when he may need to get in touch with him, and he's not about to go asking for the guys number, that will raise all sorts of question Stiles does not even have answers to. He's just a tool, just a connection, that's all. One that Stiles has no idea how or when or why he would ever need to use until the idea hits him one night sometime around half past one am.

 His Dad's working a double, and will text Stiles every 8 hours at night and every two during the day to make sure he's okay. His homework would easily fit in his bag, and its warm enough to pack only a shirt and pants for the morning. He pulls the address out of the top desk drawer, slings two bags over his shoulder, and keys the code to disarm the system by memory before shutting the door behind him.

Stiles puts the address into his navigator app before he can give it a second thought.

He doesn't hesitate to knock the moment he reaches the door matching the number in the address, because after being possessed by a demon and killing innocent people, Stiles doesn't really have anything else to be ashamed or embarrassed over. His hand barely raps on the door before it opens under his hand. Peter looks fresh and alive, which is just weird for a dead guy at nearly two in the morning. Stiles thinks it must be nice to be shameless and have no guilt to lose any sleep over.

"Stiles," he says, expression neutral as his eyes take in the boy's slumped over form, from the ten pound bags under his bloodshot eyes, and the two bags slung over one shoulder. He doesn't invite him in, but steps aside, which to Peter is the same thing.

Peter's apartment is not big, but it spares no expense. Micro suede couch with matching crimson armchairs, a coffee table that looks like real oak and not the fake crap Stiles is so accustomed to, a small kitchen with a newer model gas stove and a fridge that looks to Stiles like it belongs in a space ship, and a small dining area with more oak furnishing. In the distance is a dimly lit hallway that Stiles can only imagine leads to the single bedroom. The apartment reminds Stiles that the man spent six years in a catatonic state, and as such is the exact opposite of the hospital, warm and lovingly detailed versus cold and sparse.

"Strange," Peter smirks, which Stiles is fairly sure is his default expression of one who oozes confidence, "I don't remember giving any of you my address."

Stiles sneakers shift on the soft, thickly piled navy carpet. The hand that isn't holding his bag is rubbing the back of neck before he can even think to stop it.

"You didn't."

"So you decided to track me down yourself?" Peter asks, eyebrowing him with curiosity.

"No," Stiles huffs, reminding himself again that muttering the words will not make them any less true, will not make the nightmares any less real, "The Nogitsune did. I found this address in my stuff when I was clearing house after...everything."

Peter doesn't say anything. He just sits down in one of the chairs, which Stiles notices has a book laid open on the armrest. It’s not an old and mysterious book, in fact he recognizes the spine and chooses not to comment. Peter's reactions are unpredictable at best.

"What do you need?" he asks, and he's not genuinely concerned, because it’s Peter. But that's exactly why Stiles is here. He's curious though, in that way that Stiles knows will work to his advantage.

Stiles takes the seat across from him, slipping both bags off to rest on the floor beside this feet.

"I need someone who won't hesitate to do whatever is necessary to stop me from killing anyone else if I close my eyes and someone else opens them."

Peter eyebrows at that, and Stiles thinks he's getting the wrong idea already, because he's not just curious now, he's interested. He straightens up immediately, leaning forward and hanging on Stiles' every word, of which there are few. He knows better than to give Peter any additional ammunition, the older man doesn't need it. He has enough already.

"Have you been losing time again?"

Stiles shakes his head no. "Logically I know that...thing is gone and buried, thank you for that. Paranoia doesn't run on logic, and the more exhausted I feel the worse it gets. It’s a fucking vicious circle of insomnia that’s going to wrap my Jeep around a tree." Stiles has to take a deep chest breath, shoving his hands through hair that is already sticking up at every direction from tossing and turning, long fingers tangling in it in poor attempts to force his thoughts to return to normal.

Stiles doesn't expect Peter to care, but he does know that if something happens to him, and he survives enough to tell the others that he came to Peter who turned him away, that would probably be the end of it for the older werewolf. But Peter is not at all bored or annoyed or any other response which Stiles had expected. He's listening to every word and watching every gesture with rapt attention, leaning forward with his arms resting comfortably across his splayed legs. Its 2am and Peter is still wearing jeans and white v-neck, and Stiles really needs to stop wondering if the guy even owns pajamas or just sleeps in the nude.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Stiles swallows, and tries not to notice the way Peter tracks the movement like his neighbor’s cat with its latest prey. Then he realizes he actually has to give an answer. When was the last time he slept really?

"Yesterday."

Peter's eyebrows say he can tell Stiles isn't being entirely truthful.

"I caught an hour."

Peter does the eyeroll that involves his whole head, gets up without saying a word, and disappears down the ominous hallway. He's barely gone for a few seconds, the soft footfalls of his bare feet on the plush carpet pausing for seconds. When he appears in the living room again, there's a thin navy blanket that looks ridiculously soft in his arms.

"Rest," he says like it’s an order, dropping the blanket onto the sofa. Stiles is surprised he isn't asking any more questions, and feels prompted to fill in the blanks for him as he takes his pillow out of his duffel bag. "We'll talk when you're in a much clearer state of cognitive thought," he adds as Stiles fluffs the pillow on the armrest of the sofa. He takes the perfectly folded blanket from the man, and he swears the brushing of their fingers is entirely Peter's planning.

"Who says I want to talk?" Stiles snipes as he lets the blanket fall from its perfectly square shape. It’s bigger than he expected, and somehow even softer than it looked. He wonders exactly how mad Peter would be if he never saw it again. Peter levels him with a look and more eyebrows that says how much Stiles is clearly being an idiot for thinking any less of him.

"If you had wanted a werewolf to watch over, you would have gone with Scott. Scott is your safety net, a true alpha, and your closest friend. But you're here with me, guided by the notes of a demon, who you haven't even asked if I worked alongside while your mind was overrun by it."

Stiles yawns, and at least has the decency to cover his mouth because he knows sleep deprived breath is as bad as morning breath.

"Did you?"

"No, I didn't, and you can invite Scott over to ask me if it makes you sleep better at night," he tries to hide the smirk at his own awful comment, and guides Stiles by the waist. At first he thinks Peter is taking him to his bedroom, but then the older man is nudging him into a doorway to the left side of the hall, and it’s a small but sophisticated bathroom.

"Get changed, and go to sleep," is all he says before leaving him to the end of the hallway, where presumably is the werewolf's own bedroom, slash probable cave, slash probable wolf den, slash more likely evil lair of world domination plotting.

"It’s just for tonight," Stiles calls after him, "Just this one time, I won't bother you again," he mutters as he pulls his shirt over his head. He swears he hears Peter snort.

Stiles quickly tugs off his jeans in favor of light cotton sleep pants, and drags his feet back to the couch, which is surprisingly comfortable. He rolls to one side, rolls to the other, fluffs his pillow again-

"Stiles. Stop fidgeting," echoes down the short hallway as clear as day.

"Sorry," he yawns quietly, because he knows Peter can hear it.

"Just take a deep breath through your nose and let it ease out of your mouth."

Stiles does, and finds that actually helps. Peter is actively helping him fall asleep. A saner, more rested Stiles would question this. But everything feels like it’s pressing in on him and if he doesn't sleep soon it’s not going to fucking stop and he'll have to go to Melissa to put him under again. Sleep paralysis is probably Stiles second worst nightmare, second only to getting possessed again.

"I felt them die," Stiles finds himself saying. It’s not even so much speaking as the words just falling out of him like the moment he vomited himself...out of himself. Which is another moment in life that he's not sure how to ever comprehend, and Peter was there for that too. He's not saying anything now, but he knows Peter's listening so he continues.

"When the nogitsune and I were split, I could feel its hunger, and it was killing me. And when he fed, I felt better."

"The nogitsune took a piece of you. Don't apologize for surviving it."

"I didn't-"

"One day Stiles, you need to stop lying to yourself. Or it will only get worse."

Stiles huffs and smacks his head into this pillow, like it’s the fault of his trusted head support for not doing its nightly duty to comfort him into unconsciousness.

"I didn't save your life so you could waste it."

"Then why did you?"

There's a pause that sounds like Peter rustling in sheets, before a click of the lamp going out.

"Go to sleep Stiles."

He does, but only because his thoughts have this new question to turn over into infinity.

It is the most restful sleep Stiles has had in ages, and its only four hours on a couch. He wakes up feeling so refreshed and alive again that he doesn't care about the crick in his neck, or the fact that he has barely enough time for a three minute shower and a cup of coffee from the crappy chain place around the corner. Peter is still out cold, which is good because Stiles would snort at him otherwise over his ridiculous choices in toiletries, everything handmade and so scented it’s ridiculous. He would then have to lie and tell him it smells awful when really it’s better than the cologne he got from Lydia last year.

He's grateful to get out the door without another word from the wolf, and for the few hours of decent sleep that allow his brain to less of a chaotic mess than usual. He's still shaken, but less frantically so. He can push his guilt about Allison and the fact that he doesn't deserve a single breath when the hunter no longer can far enough below the surface to actually make an effort at focusing on his school work.

For a few days, its fine. He's okay again, as okay as he can be given the shitty circumstances of his shitty life where Lydia's latest boyfriend is also dead and Scott and Kira are so many levels of awkward that for once Stiles feels normal around them. Everything is tension and he can't stand to be around any of them, the air so thick it feels like something will snap with an audible sound at any given moment.

But no matter how much time he spends apart from the social circle that is both wound up and in tatters all at once, he still can't sleep.

That's how he finds himself at Peter's door step again a few days later. This time at 11pm, because tossing and turning for another hour or two is fucking stupid when he knows he would have ended up here in the end again anyway.

The smile smeared across Peter's mouth when he answers the door makes Stiles hands clench into fists that he really wants to slam into his smug and handsome face. He probably would without the memory of how it had felt to punch Derek. Werewolves were not made of marble or granite or any other lame one-liner from a teenage romance, but it had hurt far more than clocking Jackson had, and physically, he wasn't in any worse shape than Derek.

"Hello again, Stiles," is all Peter says before turning his back to him and walking back inside. Stiles has a moment of admiring the rippling of shoulders under a tight sage green shirt to wonder how many times Peter has turned his back on anyone. For a fleeting moment he thinks it might be a sign of trust, something formed between how many times Stiles had been uninvited to murder times while Peter had volunteered to sit out, but the moment is over quickly when the boy remembers that Peter is a werewolf in his thirties who simply doesn't view a human 17 year old boy as a threat worthy of being worried about at any point at all.

He doesn't even speak to him as he fills an honest to god tea kettle with water and puts in on the stove. Peter Hale owns a tea kettle. Stiles wonders if he should ever try and check the kitchen for poisons. Stiles wonders if Peter will ever give him a moment alone to do so. Stiles is fairly certain Peter isn't stupid enough to keep poisons in the kitchen, he knows he wouldn't either. Stiles keeps his wolfsbane in the very same box as his porn, thusly insuring no one will ever go in it.

Peter chuckles, because Stiles is standing there slack-jawed, staring at the back of Peter's head just inches from the front door, which he realizes he should shut behind that him, and does. He must find Stiles suffering hilarious, and that’s why he's doing this.

It couldn't be that Peter is just as lonely without a pack as Stiles is without friends.

No, Stiles supplies, stamping down the thought like the fly he killed in his bedroom just a few hours ago. Fucking flies. He's going to be scarred for life now by the most innocuous creature known to man. What a great tale that will be if it ever makes the rounds. Stiles Stilinski, the human of the Hale pack. Gets ass kicked by hunters, possessed by demon. Will snark at older and more powerful monsters, and have a panic attack over a stupid fucking fly. Jesus fucking fuck.

Peter still hasn't turned to look at him since he came in, but he thinks the older man's shoulders tense up the longer he's standing there. What he does do is raise one arm, only to point to the open door to the bathroom.

"Get comfortable."

He opens his mouth to argue, and then realizes that the guy probably just wants him to go to sleep and give him some peace, and obviously the first step in that is getting out of the skinny jeans and red v-neck he threw on that morning. And by threw on Stiles means spent at least ten minutes wiggling into. It took more time to put on these jeans that it did to put on the usual four layers he was accustomed to wearing before the warmer weather set in.

He drops the bag with his school books by the couch, keeps the one with his night clothes and pillow, and just does. As it turns out, a worn out Stiles is too worn out to fucking argue, especially when the order is to take off the too-tight jeans that he's cursed to own because of the one time he went shopping with Lydia and Allison and Scott, and his laziness to put off laundry until there is literally nothing else to wear. They're easier to get off than on, thank fucking God, and Stiles walks back out into the living room with his feet scuffing the soft piled carpet in grey plaid pajama pants and the plain black shirt they came with from last Christmas. They were a gift from his mom's sister, and are the only set he has that doesn't feature comic book characters or video game consoles of any kind.

"You never came to talk to me that morning," leaves Stiles mouth the moment he sinks into the couch, sitting up because Peter is obviously being quiet to mull over what he wants to say. The only time Peter doesn't snark is when his mind is too occupied to risk a distraction.

"I knew you would be back soon enough," Peter says simply, turning to look at him for the first time all night as the kettle goes off with a screech that makes Stiles jump, because his friends are all normal people who make tea in microwaves. He pours off two mugs and, instead of sitting in his clearly preferred arm chair, sits down beside him, placing the mugs on two matching red and gold coasters on the coffee table, which Stiles imagines is made of real wood and would probably get rings from the heat alone.

"You slept without a single nightmare," he says, and when Stiles snorts he levels the teenager with a look that stops the sarcasm in its tracks. "I had a houseful of children once, I know the uptick in heartbeat anywhere. Tell me, Stiles, when was the last time you closed your eyes, and didn't wake up with your heart in your throat and the urge to scream?"

Stiles is too busy being mollified by the mental image of Peter checking in on screaming children, a Peter who hadn't yet had his humanity burned out of him, rotting and left to fester in a hospital bed for six years. When he finally shakes off the image of Peter clutching a small child to his chest and soothing their fears he comes back to the image of Peter simply sitting next to him, eyebrowing him over whatever tea he has in his hands. It smells familiar.

"The last time I slept here," he says simply, because Stiles can't lie to anyone anymore, least of all the most conniving werewolf he knows. He picks up the mug in his hands, almost too hot but not quite, and it smells like mint and herbs and something that could be honey.

"It’s not poisoned," Peter sneers, and Stiles takes a sip just to prove to him how not an idiot he is.

"I know it’s not, that would be too obvious. If you were going to poison me, you wouldn't do it in your own home, and you certainly wouldn't without having a frame-up for someone else first. Maybe Ms. Morell, or Kira's mom."

Peter nods with a knowing smile that says he knows Stiles probably better than he would like the older man to, like he understands him on a level that he isn't comfortable admitting. But of course, that’s why Stiles is here at all. That's why he came the first time, and that's ultimately what brings him back.

"Let me guess, you can't face the guilt of maiming and murdering your friends? You keep seeing her face when you try and fall asleep every night?" Peter all but whispers, like his voice has to match the dim lighting and the lulling tasting of valerian and chamomile and spearmint. It’s not a kind whisper though, and Stiles wonders if he should leave.

"Do you still see Laura's?"

He's quiet, takes a deep drink of his tea while Stiles can't stop watching him, and totally doesn't eyeball the way his throat bobs around the swallow.

"Sometimes," he says finally, and the look in his eyes, which is devoid of all humor and mirth, has Stiles thinking that if Scott were here he wouldn't hear a lie, just the steady beat of truth.

The tea is the same his mom used to make, and it has the same lulling effect. It calms Stiles down. Not enough to sleep, but enough to let loose the words that ricochet around his thoughts so often he's amazed they haven't come out sooner.

He tells Peter everything, in as few words as possible. He tells him how he battled in his own head to save his father from the bomb at his office, and how he hates himself for not being able to save Derek. How he can't stand to go to his nephew and thank him for saving Chris Argent when he could not. How the feeling of twisting a blade between Scott's ribs is a sensation he still remembers as if he's there right now. His hands shake so bad that Peter plucks the mug from his fingers only seconds before it would have slipped into his lap. He tells him about fighting to stay awake at Echo House, and finally letting the monster in.

He tells him about how much he hates Kira's mother for starting it all, really truly does, which makes it awkward to be around Kira though clearly none of it is her fault. He knows that, but it doesn't make him hate her mother any less. Who summons a demon? Wouldn't 900 years of life make you smarter than that?

Peter doesn't say anything, but he is listening, Stiles knows it. Stiles knows he is willingly giving the guy valuable information and ammunition to use against him. He'd care if he had anyone else to talk to, but his other options actually give him a panic attack every time he considers them. He's had twenty in the past week alone. He's grieving, he tells himself, he's allowed his fair share of breathless sobbing.

His hands are tangled in his hair when he finally says the one thought that rules above all others, the one that truly makes him sick, and has before. The mint in the tea helps a bit with that, makes it easier to whisper the one thought that has actually made him throw up for what felt like an eternity, even when he had nothing in his stomach left, completely gutted and raw and empty.

"I think I would be dead if Allison hadn't died."

Stiles lets out all of the air in his lungs in one long go, and he can feel Peter stiffen beside him, can feel him draw himself upright and the shifting of the couch cushions as he does.

He waits for the guy to say something, and all he does is reheat Stiles tea in the microwave, and hands it back to him, not boiling hot, but luke warm. The perfect chuggable temp.

"Finish your tea," he says, and Stiles does, because he knows it'll help.

It dawns on him during the third sip under Peter's watchful gaze that the older man might just be stalling as he tries to find the right thing to say.

"Killing Laura was not a conscious decision," is what he says finally, and his eyes are moving back and forth from Stiles eyes to where his mouth is getting down the tea in long draughts. It really does taste less after being in the microwave, and he mentally vows to never give Peter shit for owning a kettle again. "I would not have survived without the alpha power, however."

Stiles sucks down the last dregs with a grimace, taking care to set the warm porcelain onto the coaster, lest Peter snarl at him for harming his precious new furniture. "So you do feel guilt over it then?" he asks, and he doesn't even care that it’s a stupid question. The tea is making him feel the warm and fuzzy sort of calm and content, and the couch is hugging him in already like an old friend, begging for rest.

"Guilt is a useless emotion. There is no point in feeling miserable over actions which you cannot change. It is a waste of time. I miss her. Of course I do. She was pack. But guilt and shame are foolish burdens to bear."

"Sorry," Stiles mutters.

"As is apologizing constantly for every little thing you do," Peter says, grabbing Stiles by the chin and forcing him to meet his gaze from where Stiles is studying the color of the carpet against the table legs.  "Save your breath for something worth apologizing over."

Stiles will blame the way he relaxes into the touch due to a heady combination of sleep deprivation, touch starvation, and general loneliness.

He closes his eyes so Peter can't look into him them, so he can't see if Peter's face turns into a grin or a scowl or some form of awe. He imagines it to be a combination of the first and second when the hand is gone, only to be quickly replaced by that heavenly blanket.

If Peter says anything else, Stiles isn't conscious to hear it.

In a few days, he's back again, this time a few hours earlier. Stiles says the same thing every time Peter answers the door, and Peter has the same stupidly knowing smirk.

They don't talk, not really. Peter is not a man of advice and wisdom. He doesn't care if you're lonely, but the best part is, Peter doesn't really care much about anything at all. It makes things easy for Stiles. Peter is not painfully optimistic, like Scott tries so hard to be. Peter doesn't tell him it will get easier, because it probably won't.

The silence between them though is never awkward, never the tense thing pulled taught like a garrote that it’s become at lunch every day. It’s easy. Peter is simple where his friends are a clusterfuck of a goddamn mess. It’s a comfortable, companionable silence made of huffs and snorts in amusement and frustration while Peter listens to music and reads, "absorbing" as Stiles has come to call it, while Stiles is usually bent over the homework he seems to always be behind on no matter how much he tries otherwise. Peter who makes faces when he reads Harry Potter. Stiles looks up from his homework a lot to see the grimace or amused huff of a laugh and has to fight the urge to snicker, and really it’s probably what makes a simple vocab worksheet take almost half an hour. They go to sleep in their separate rooms with a simple "good night," and Stiles sleeps the sleep of the comfortable and shame free. Peter's apartment is in fact a shame-free zone.

It takes a few more visits for these silences to become filled, for the huffs and snorts to become groans and actual words. Peter has on an eclectic mix that consists largely of tracks which contain little to no lyrics which a human being could sing too, and sounds like a global trip to places hot and dry and void of the English language, something Stiles knows he probably just downloaded that afternoon over lunch, as Peter is always putting on his most Recently Added on the stereo dock. Even without the cover off it, Stiles knows the spine of the Deathly Hallows anywhere.

But Stiles is not judging Peter's choice of reading because a) Harry Potter is a fucking gift to mankind, b) he doesn't want to get kicked out or you know actually die, and c) he's too busy suffering from what could only be his brain leaking out of his ears from the impossible equation's his new chemistry teacher demanded they balance for tonight's homework.

One noise too many is finally enough for Peter to put the engrossing world of JK Rowling down with a snap that has Stiles looking up with fear in his eyes, thinking after almost two weeks of this, he's finally made Peter snap. He's amazed he lasted this long. But Peter doesn't glare. At first he looks annoyed, the very same look he gave Stiles when he blatantly lied about not knowing Scott's username and password. He gets up, stalks over to the kitchen in long, purposeful strides, and leans over Stiles' shoulder, his breath skimming down his neck.

"This is what you're making dying whale noises over?"

Stiles turns around with his most offended look, only to find that Peter's face is so close Stiles could lick it, and holy hell that thought was so out of left field Stiles thinks that chemistry has finally succeeded in causing permanent brain damage. He flails on instinct, and its only Peter's werewolf reflexes that keep him from falling out of the barstool and toppling onto the floor, the rolled up sleeves of his stupid white Henley leaving his arms bare as they cage him firmly in place.

"I do _not_ sound like a dying whale."

Peter eyebrows, and the grin only widens.

"An orca then.

"That is-"

"Not a whale, but in fact the largest species of dolphin."

"Why do you - never mind. Scariest freaking thing in the ocean, of course you know everything about it."

Peter just grins, the one with teeth, that Stiles is pretty sure is similar to the last thing an unfortunate seal sees, and puts the kettle on.

Stiles is fast becoming a tea addict and he swears to god if Peter tells anyone, he will tell Derek about the Linkin Park cd the guy totally tries to hide between tracks of new AC/DC and the Hoosiers, but its fucking on there.

"How is it you single handedly solved a cold case, managed to figure out the one dirty secret Derek kept from everyone, myself included, but you can't balance a simple chemical reaction?"

"Oh yeah? Think you can do any better?"

"I'm not the one who set someone on fire with a self-igniting Molotov cocktail," Peter drawls, but there's no heat to it, and even a little bit of something that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges that looks like mirth.

"I did. Think the new teacher would give me extra credit?"

Peter huffs as he sets down a cup of tea in front of him. Stiles doesn't have to ask anymore, Peter knows what he likes and how. It’s early yet, just before 9, and so Stiles is entitled to his favorite mug of Red Rose Peach Cobbler black tea.

"That depends, did you make them?"

Stiles snorts before he blows on his tea, attempt to cool it down, while Peter of course drinks right from the mug because werewolves are smug assholes who could eat pizza right out of the oven. He's watched Scott do it with a mixture of awe and envy.

"Course not, Lydia did."

"Would you know how?"

"Of course not! Would you?"

Stiles pales when he remembers that Peter died by fire sort of twice and so did his whole family and probably most everyone he cared about and maybe it’s not nice to make jokes about literally playing with fire.

But Peter does not glare, he doesn't snarl. His eyes don't shine that electric blue, and he does not brood like his nephew. He just takes another drink of mug, smirking, because the expression is probably a permanent fixture on his ungodly handsome face.

"Chemistry has never been my forte."

Stiles opens his mouth and his to bite down a pun about the kind of chemistry Peter is absolutely brilliant at. He drinks his tea, and ignores Peter's stupidly expressive eyebrows for his homework.

They talk about how every Chemistry teacher you've ever met actually hates their job and you so just suck it up the first day and don't bother trying to win any favors with the hallways between them, and Stiles laughs thinking about Peter in chem lab trying to be smarmy and sassy, and still getting C's for his efforts.

Stiles wakes up the next morning to hot coffee for the first time, and Peter telling him if he's going to shower here, don't be a cadge. He is not at all surprised to find when he googles the word that it hasn't been commonly used since the 19th century.

The next time Stiles comes over, it’s four in the afternoon after lacrosse practice. Kira's mom was overseeing her initial try-outs, and all Stiles could think was how she had stayed behind when they needed her most, when no one would have died if she hadn't been so selfish.

Peter does not comment on the time, or that Stiles eyes are blown open, or that his breathing is labored even though the walk from where he parks the Jeep to Peter's front door is not only minimal, but air-conditioned. He just nods, takes it in like this happens every day, though the earliest Stiles has shown up was eight pm, once.

He does however, order him to shower, to which Stiles grabs both his spare clothes and his shower bag. Peter eyebrows, Stiles says "what?" and Peter just smiles, shakes his head, and grabs an older looking wooden box from the higher shelves of his bookcase.

"No freaky rituals while I'm in dispose!"

"I would never."

Stiles pokes his head out from the bathroom door where he's already stripped of his shirt, and the glare he shoots him as absolutely no heat, whereas the look in Peter's eyes has more than enough to go around when Stiles tells him "You are a lying liar who lies," and snaps the door shut to hold in the steam before he can answer.

There is no freaky werewolf ritual in the wooden box, it’s a chess board.

Stiles doesn't get lost in the game as per usual. This time, he gets lost in Peter. He totally blames it on the Adderall dosage he missed because he completely forgot to stop by the pharmacy on the way to school this morning, because he finds himself wondering who taught Peter to play. Who did he grow up playing with? Was it weird seeing Derek after the fire for the first time? Six years, how much your family can grow in six years. Stiles is suddenly grateful he was only out for a couple of days. Six years sounds like a lifetime. He could have finished college by then.

"Stiles."

Its Stiles move, and he has no idea what to do because Peter is destroying him. Which sort of sucks since apparently Hale house rules always stated that the loser would do dishes, and the winner gets to pick where to order take out for dinner.

"What did you do in college?" he finally says as he tries to inch another pawn towards the end of the board. It’s a slow and useless journey that will get him nowhere.

Peter has never once asked where and why Stiles gets these thoughts into his head. He just smiles as he takes out his last bishop and says.

"Not Chemistry."

Stiles squints, not at the board which he should be paying attention to, but to Peter, as if he focuses his eyes harder he can glean some superior tacit of knowledge that will change the tide of his fortunes.

"You were an English major, weren't you?"

The pawn moves one more meager space closer to queen-dom, and Stiles looks at the board to see his huge mistake. But his fingers are off the piece, and it's all over."

"Checkmate."

They get Thai food that's so healthy Stiles could feed it to his father, and somehow it’s also one of the most delicious things he's ever eaten.

Stiles still ends up doing all the dishes by hand, and the only reason Peter doesn't get water thrown at him is because he's reading Game of Thrones.

Peter isn't always around or simply reading when Stiles comes around. Sometimes Peter goes out on a long walk and comes back with something nice, like coffee and beignets from some shop he's never heard of. Rarely he goes on a run, and Stiles wonders when he returns breath heady and covered in sweat how much of the wolf came back when he rose from the dead. Stiles just assumed Peter was being a dick all those times he refused to go off into battle, but maybe there is something to it.

He did risk his life for Cora, after all.

One time Stiles comes in and Peter is practicing what the teen is fairly certain is tai chi in the second bedroom, a door across from the bathroom which he didn't even know existed, which is weird seeing as Stiles is usually Captain Observant. Peter walks in to the living room sweaty and shirtless, barefoot in yoga pants. Stiles always knew his sexuality was fluid, but male yoga pants should be banned from existence, the thin sage fabric clinging to fabrics which pants were not made to cling to.

He makes the excuse that he's going to grab burgers as Peter goes to take a shower, and hears an "If you would be so kind," and even through the walls he can hear and see his stupid evil smirk that should not get his heart pumping like it does. He grabs him a burger at Five Guys, and despite the look of fear Peter has given the cooks when he orders, he still remembers it by heart.

But it's not all chess matches and gourmet food and sarcasm, Stiles knows that, and he knows he can't avoid it forever.

He thinks he has it all perfectly planned. Everyone has places to be, so there shouldn't be anyone here. This of course is dashed the moment he pulls up to the cemetery, and nearly falls out of his Jeep on his own head when he sees the familiar red pick-up truck, and there's Chris Argent standing by his daughter's grave, and Stiles is the one who put her there.

He knows he should go say hello. He knows he should go pay his respects. It’s the right thing to do, to confront Chris and tell him what happened, tell him the truth. But Stiles is not brave and he is not a hero and right now he can't walk over to Allison's grave because his throat is closing up and he needs to get right the hell out of there right now.

It’s only two ‘o’clock in the afternoon, but Stiles guns it to downtown Beacon Hills anyway and hopes beyond hope that Peter is home and not out shopping or running or on a stroll. He doesn't know why Peter goes on his walks, it’s not for calm. Maybe he just likes to be seen, fresh faces to leer at and terrify.

It’s this thought that surprisingly calms him down enough to not fly through the second red light. He thanks the powers that be that Beacon Hills is too broke for traffic cams until he actually gets to the shops on Main Street.

When he puts the car in park, he takes a breath, and actually thinks to ask before he knocks. What if he's with someone? What if is a woman? As unlikely as it seems, given Peter's current focus on just getting back into the groove of the world six years later, he just saw Chris Argent for the first time, and he's been to the cemetery enough times before that this should not be a thing that happens, as it never has before not once not ever. Stiles figures the world is just out to chew him up and spit him out today. Maybe there will be a text from Scott finally asking him what he does when he's not at home lately, just to cap it all off.

The world is a strange and terrifying thing already, as Stiles remembers the first time he met Peter, the half-scarred face smiling at him and saying his name like he was someone to be greatly admired, as his name pops up on his screen with only a "doors unlocked," and the words ease the weight on his chest. Stiles was holding his breath. He throws himself out of the Jeep, a bag over each shoulder, and jogs up the stairs before he can give it a second thought. He's not sure if Peter will want to talk about Chris Argent, hell it’s a pretty damn triggering topic as is, like bringing up the fact that everything in his kitchen is new and beautiful except the electric coil stove.

So he should probably think of something better to open with other than I Saw Chris Argent Today And I Worry That Sometimes He Wants To Kill Me. He takes a deep breath, tries to think of something less terrible. Not Scott, no Kira who still wanders more like a lost puppy than a fox, and not Lydia because the fact that he feels no urge at all to come to her about any of this is one that hurts in almost physical throb.

“I will not be doing the dishes tonight!” he says with as much bravado as he can muster, recalling the strategies he looked up during his free period because fuck a chemistry exam, “I did my reading today and have figured you out. Prepare to be pruned, I intend to triumph,” he grins as he locks all four bolts on door.

Stiles drops both bags to the floor when there is not one Hale in the living room, but two. Peter is sitting in his usual chair, lounging about in that way he does with ankle of one leg propped up on the knee of the other, and he’s looking at Stiles with a smile and eyebrows that welcome the challenge. And sitting to his left, on the couch that is starting to make Stiles neck stiff even though it’s the only place that gives him 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep, is Derek, who looks like he has at least a dozen retorts, but is instead chewing on the inside of his mouth with an expression like he just swallowed skunked beer. Derek who is paler than Stiles has seen him since the day he almost died in his Jeep, but he doesn’t smell like death, so he figures he’ll walk it off.

Stiles is suddenly remembering that he’s been hanging out with Peter enough that his name is always near if not the very top of his messages, and they barely say one or two words a day. He can only imagine what the apartment must smell like.

“Stiles,” Derek bites out, and Stiles thinks he would stand if he had the energy to waste on it, “I would ask what you’re doing here, but this couch smells more like you than it does my Uncle.”

Stiles looks at Peter for answers, and the man just shrugs, like it’s nothing at all if all of Stiles friend's suddenly discover that his friend, God when did his life become this, that he maintains a regular friendship complete with chores and dinner plans and sleepovers with the werewolf responsible for Stiles getting dragged into this mess in the first place. Though if Stiles is being honest with himself, he’s begun thinking of the two as nearly separate people, post coma Peter and post resurrection Peter are not entirely the same. They are not completely apart, but the more time he spends in his company, the more he sees it. His eyes don’t even look the same. The Peter he knows always has something in them like he’s his own breed of trickster spirit, when the killer he stared down in a muddy lacrosse field had nothing at all, hollow holes made for killing first and asking questions never.

“That’s because I sleep there,” Stiles says simply, because some days he can lie to werewolves, but when he’s sure he reeks of panic and fear, he simply can’t muster a fuck to give.

Did he really think he could keep this from them forever?

Yes, yes he did.

 It was only supposed to be one night.

That one night is now over a month ago.

“Do you need me to leave?” Stiles asks finally, and it’s strange, of all the things he’s asked Peter, this has never been one of them. “I could go grab a bite or maybe coffee. Where the hell have you been getting those beignets?”

Derek’s frown only deepens, like the thought of Peer and Stiles sharing pastries is the source of his nightmares.

Peter immediately sits upright and does something that Stiles would find truly alarming, if not for the simple fact that Peter loves nothing more than to make Derek uncomfortable, to extort this and take the power of Derek being able to shame or insult either of them away from him. He gets to his feet, and takes Stiles bags away from the door to shove them under the glass coffee table, where Stiles always puts them so they’re within reach but not under foot.

“Derek was just leaving. Though I can show you the cafe, if you like,”

Any other day Stiles would burst out laughing at the way Derek looks like he might be ill.

“Maybe tomorrow,” is all Stiles can reply with, not wanting to say the awful truth that if he’s out in public he’ll honestly wonder how many people are around him, who isn’t, and the many ways in which they could kill him or possess him or summon ninjas, while he’s powerless to stop any of it at all. Beacon Hills could be pulling anything in, and Stiles hasn't been able to get near the bestiary much less translate it to prepare for whatever the hell is probably on its way.

Derek shoves himself off the couch like it’s personally offended him. There’s nothing off smelling about it, Peter would have snarked at him to clean it if there were. Even pale and sickly and clearly healing from something in the general torso region, he still manages to shoulder past him hard enough that it hurts.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he huffs, and he’s gone without another word.

Stiles leans against the door as it shuts behind him, lets himself slide to the floor without even consciously meaning to do it. His head falls back onto the metal with a soft thud.

“Fuck.”

“What happened today?” Peter asks, not bothering to get up. Stiles likes it though, Peter can’t see him easily from where he sinks back into his favored chair. He can make all the awful faces he wants and no one can judge him for it.

“I thought I would go see Allison today.”

Peter makes a thoughtful noise, and he’s pretty sure he can hear him turning the page in a book. Last time Stiles saw him, he was still on Clash of Kings. He lets his head drop into his knees, in case he decides to start crying and needs a place to hide.

“Chris was there.”

The book shuts with a snap.

“Nothing happened. I saw the truck and him from a ways off and took off.”

There’s the shuffle of wood on wood, the sound a comforting rustle of movement. Peter must be barefoot, Stiles realizes, because he didn’t hear him get up.

“Are you going to show me what you learned, or would rather do the dishes now and save yourself the pain of defeat?”

Stiles wipes at his watering eyes with the sleeve of hoodie, and shrugs it off onto the couch as he gets up. It’s too warm for it anyway. The board is already set, and Peter is in the kitchen pouring steaming water into two mugs. He always pulls it off the second before it screeches, an unspoken agreement that the sound triggers in Stiles the image of Lydia screaming in Allison’s name in his arms.

They play in silence, no conversation unless Peter’s thoughtful hmms and Stiles aggravated sighs and swears at pieces being lost one by one count as small talk. The only noise is the constant vibration of Stiles cellphone, who never opens a single one, thought he does check to make sure none of them are his father. In Stiles defense, he gets really damn close. He even gets Peter’s queen this time, a feat he’s never managed before.

The game ends with Peter grinning, and Stiles huffing a swear, today’s is “You motherfucker.”

“Not quite.”

“Oh that’s just...no. Uncalled for.”

Stiles follows him into the kitchen where he’s thoughtfully looking over take out menus to look at the mountain of hell waiting for him in the sink.

“You could just use the dishwasher.”

Stiles can actually feel a single eyebrow twitch. It hasn’t done that since the day Stiles tried to tell his best friend that he was no longer human. When he looks at Peter, the man is pointedly not looking at him.

“You told me it was broken.”

He can see Peter grinning over the menu for the Indian place 20 minutes out, on the other side of the small but congested area.

“I also once told you I lived in a series of underground caves, hidden, deep in the woods.”

Peter holds up a hand to quiet him while he orders, and Stiles loads the machine like it’s personally offended him, mutters exactly what he thinks of Peter to dirtied silverware while he looks under the sink for the soap. He’s only slightly disappointed that there is no sign of anything even remotely insidious to be seen, unless using Cascade to insure perfect dishes with minimal effort is considered evil.

They don’t say much else the rest of the night. Stiles picks at his food even though it’s delicious, Peter ordering his favorite dish even though he barely cares for it himself, doing what he believes to be a very good job of being distracted by his reading for the quiz in English class tomorrow, but when he looks up from the exploits of Gatsby and the stupid green light that he’s sure is going to mean something stupidly complex tomorrow, Peter is watching him unblinkingly.

“I thought you were past the creeper thing. You hardly even quote the Art of War when we play now.”

“Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.”

“See, like that. Don’t look at me like that either like I’m a lesser being for not reading your Machiavellian favorites. Pretty sure they don’t teach that book in high school, unless it’s run by you or Gerard Argent.”

He instantly gets the image of being sent to the office of Principal Peter Hale, and goes back to reading with the determination to force the poorly conveyed subtext into this eyeballs so he can see and think of nothing else other than the most boring take on one of the most interesting times in American history.

When Daisy gets hit by a car it’s said with such a lack of enthusiasm or detail that he nearly throws the book at the wall. In his own home, he probably would have. He settles for snapping it shut with a huff and shoving it into his bag, letting his head sink into his favorite pillow. The awkward ache in his spine from the angle of the sofa is a familiar friend.

“Does it ever get any easier?” Stiles asks, and in the way Peter always does, the older man knows exactly what Stiles isn’t saying when he sets down the words of George R Martin.

“No. And it may surprise you to know, that I don’t believe it ever should.” Peter shoves himself to his bare feet, flicking off the living room light and treading over to the bathroom to wash up. Stiles is nearly asleep when he speaks again.

“The day it does is the day you go from being the devil you know, to a monster no one would recognize.”

Stiles doesn’t bother to stifle a yawn.

“Like Deucalion.”

“Exactly like Deucalion.”

Stiles lets himself nuzzle into the pillow as Peter’s footsteps fade down the short hallway. He blames exhaustion due to Fitzgerald’s unimaginative writing for his lack of brain to mouth filter.

“You’re still recognizable.”

If Peter says anything about it, Stiles isn’t conscious to hear it.

The next morning Stiles is stretching out while he waits for the coffee. It’s actually yoga but it’s just sun salutations, and it feels great on his back after a night on the couch. Usually Peter is in the shower for it, or still asleep, but this morning there’s a throat clearing behind him, and Stiles nearly falls into the coffee table. He manages to control the flailing so he simply sprawls out onto the floor in a graceless heap.

“Yes?” he asks, voice muffled where his mouth is face planted into the carpet.

“You can’t keep doing this Stiles.”

He’s on his feet faster than a teenage boy without caffeine ever should be. There are laws against it, he’s certain. He doesn’t know what to say, and again, this is the coffee pot’s fault for being too slow, and Peter for deciding that 6:15 am is the time for this conversation.

His phone has 27 unread messages, 11 missed calls, and three voicemails. None of which are from his father.

But he gets it. He’s a teenage boy sleeping on the couch of a man who refuses no matter how many times to even tell him his age, and he is not asking Derek for it as long as he lives. A man who also murdered people and nearly killed Lydia and turned his best friend into a werewolf. The only man who understands what it’s like to end a life with hands that are both yours and not. Stiles thought they were...it doesn't matter. He nods like he understands, refusing to meet Peter’s eyes, and walks past him to the kitchen to steal a cup of coffee before he packs his things and flees in shame.

“The couch is horrible for your back.”

Stiles nearly chokes on his coffee.

“Excuse me?”

Peter looks at him like he’s just asked if werewolves are allergic to silver, and grabs a cup for himself, without the cream and sugar Stiles piles into his like it’s going out of style.

“You’ve been doing this for over a month. Nearly two, actually. I won’t be responsible for the damage you inflict upon yourself.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting because it is too early and I am not caffeinated enough for your sophisticated subtlety.”

“If you want to keep sleeping here, you need to do so in an actual bed.”

Stiles gulps down coffee like it’ll force his brain to a higher level of thought.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say there’s not a second bed in that second bedroom, is there?”

“It’ll be better for your body and your mind. If you keep sleeping on the sofa, you won’t fall asleep on anything else.”

“You’re joking.”

“You can ask Derek, but I’m sure he won’t give you anything other than his constipated expression, you know the one.”

Stiles nods.

“Like someone put salt instead of sugar in the Kool-Aid.”

Peter smiles, and his eyes do the thing they never did when they first met, and Stiles grins right back.

“Scott and I are terrible friends who may have had a prank war for a week.”

Peter eyebrows.

“We were grounded for the next two months.”

“Was it worth it?” Peter asks, already reaching to pour his second cup.

“You should have seen the look on Mr. McCall’s face.”

“Tell me, will it look like your chemistry teacher’s if you’re late for class?”

Stiles swears and runs out the door, nearly tripping as he scoops up his bags in the process.

He can actually hear Peter smiling behind him at his total lack of grace, which he thinks isn’t lacking at all this morning, seeing as he didn’t fall on his face.

His phone has 34 new messages when he pulls the Jeep into park at a space that is not all his usual spot, but that’s all part of the grand master plan. Stiles at least double checks that his Dad’s conversation isn’t lit up, and its pushed so far to the bottom it makes his chest hurt as he shoves it in his pocket and jogs into his first class right before the bell, where he doesn’t look anywhere but at his own text book, the notes from last night’s reading he made, and the quiz by the hopefully not psychotic substitute, a little old lady named Mrs. Fiore. She’s so nice she even lets them keep out any notes while they take it, explaining that encouraging you to do the reading and take notes is an apt way of preparing them for doing so in college. Stiles isn’t sure when they stopped making nice teachers, but he’s fairly certain Mrs. Fiore is the last of her kind.

Stiles is able to keep this up for the first half of the day. He hides in the restrooms during breaks, shoves every book in his bag at once so he can avoid his locker for the rest of his passing periods. His shoulder aches with the effort of all of his textbooks at once, but it’s worth it for the quiet.

Sadly, there is no escape at lunch. At first, he thinks to occupy the empty table that Boyd used to call his own, but the moment he turns to find a seat there’s a hand grabbing his right arm, clenching around his bicep with the familiar sharp prick of barely there claws. He looks over to see Isaac, who isn’t so much as glowering like he once did, but pleading.

“You need to come sit down with me right now. Scott keeps ranting to me about you and about Peter and if you don’t say something to someone he’s going to do something stupid.”

“How stupid?” Stiles asks, even as he lets himself be dragged along through the tables to the one Jackson used to occupy.

“Confront Peter and cow him into not seeing you with his Alphaness.”

 Now he’s just thinking about all of the chairs once occupied that won’t ever be again, and he swallows down the panic before it can crawl out of his throat.

“That’s...a pretty bad level.”

Stiles is shoved into this seat between Isaac and Lydia, Scott and Kira across from him. They’re joined by Danny after a few moments, which Stiles is still getting used to becoming routine.

He shoves a tater tot into his mouth because he’s fucking starving and it gives him a second to chew over his words.

“Is this an intervention?”

“Dude-” Scott begins, and really, Stiles isn’t sure he wants to hear it. In fact he never wants to hear it. What do you say to your best friend when you kill their girlfriend? Stiles has had months now to think about it and he still has nothing at all to say.

“It feels like an intervention.”

Lydia shrugs and takes a bite of her salad, munching on fruit and almonds thoughtfully.

“I don’t see why it should be.”

Stiles mouth gapes as she turns to look at him, popping a cherry tomato into her rosy glossed lips.

“You’re doing much better.”

Stiles looks at Scott and he might as well be looking into a mirror, their expressions still perfectly in synch. Some things even the bite from a werewolf can’t change.

“But why Peter?”

Stiles stares at his chicken and tots, and he doesn’t lose his appetite, but for a moment his stomach stops snarling to let him think on that. He never really asked himself that question. It just made sense at the time. He turns it over so long that when he looks up no one is eating, five sets of eyes just staring at him.

There should have been eight.

He knows they’re expecting some grand speech about alliances and his time being not himself, but Stiles just lets out the breath he hadn’t known was holding and says the only thing he can think of.

“Peter is easy.”

He’s still a teenage boy though and as such is an expert at ignoring awkward and horrified looks while he wolfs down his lunch. Isaac is the only one still eating. He snorts inelegantly and takes a bite of his burger.

“I bet he is.”

This was not the line of conversation Stiles had anticipated for.

“It’s not like that.”

“Dude,” Danny said, hands up in surrender, “I’m not gonna judge, but didn’t he go crazy and kill a bunch of people? Age is one thing, but you don’t put your dick in crazy.”

“You think that’s how it goes?” Isaac smirks, to which Danny just rolls his eyes and takes a chug of his water.

“No, I think it’s a versatile relationship with lots of switching, like any healthy sexual relationship.”

“No one is putting anything in anywhere!” Stiles nearly shouts, flailing as if he can remove that particular image from his brain. Now he’s just thinking about the yoga pants. Stiles friends are the absolute worst.

“See, they’re taking it slow,” Danny grins, and god he’s enjoying this. This is payback for Miguel, and Stiles is just going to sink down into the floor and die.

“No one is taking anything, at any pacing. Did Derek leave out the part where I sleep on the couch? Cause that’s where I sleep. On the couch. Many rooms away from Peter, so can you just drop it for the love of God.”

And to his surprise, they do. Kira just gives him a reassuring smile, otherwise not saying a single thing, and the awkward silence settles back in like cold fog on a damp spring morning.

No one even talks about saying anything to his dad, and Stiles is at least grateful for that. Scott attempts small talk about lacrosse tryouts next month, how Stiles is in great shape and could easily make first line, or could just make Coach take him since he held his blood back in and totally saved his life.

No one mentions that Stiles nearly killed him in the first place.

Then Stiles is home again. His homework is actually finished. Its dark out, and the quiet sounds of crickets and spring peepers are easing in through the window that is, for the first time since he’s been alone in his head again, open.

It made his Dad smile before he went into work.

He should be sleeping, he knows it. But what if he really just can’t sleep in a bed now? What if Stiles is supposed to go back again? He’s never spent two nights in a row, usually lets at least a day or two pass between them so he can pretend he has other things to do like he doesn’t look forward to going over to Peter’s, like it hasn’t become the safe haven everyone now knows it to be.

What if it’s a test, and Stiles is failing by chickening out, by lying here and subjecting himself to the hundreds of thoughts flitting about his mental space that range from Peter telling him it doesn’t get better to yoga pants.

Stiles is back at 11:30 with his pillow.

 Peter eyebrows.

"I don’t care if it's duck down and memory foam bliss I can’t sleep without my pillow don't even start."

Peter just does that stupid half-smirk that Stiles knows is him biting back a shitty comment, and lets him inside once again.

It dawns on Stiles that he's never even been down the hallway before. He's never been past the bathroom that he steals for a three minute shower every morning. Peter made a snark about his shampoo usage, and so Stiles has had his own stuff for...it’s been over a month. Stiles has just now realized that he's been sleeping on the couch of the guy who nearly killed his childhood love for over a month.

And now he's going to climb into bed with him.

But Stiles killed Scott's, so he figures that makes things even.

"Stiles."

He looks up to see the werewolf's eyes at a rare moment of intensity, and realizes he can feel his chest rising and falling rather harshly. He feels too hot and cold all at once.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but the glare Peter levels him with makes him think twice. Stiles says sorry far too much, and Peter hates it. It takes weeks until Stiles can finally curb the word from his tongue.

"It's nothing," he says, because it isn't, it’s just another fact spewed out to indicate that it’s time to take his Adderall again.

Stiles keeps waiting for Peter to make a wise-crack, for the tension to dissolve as it always does with them, a pressure that builds and then falls before anything can come of it. Moments of intensity before they remember who they are again. But Peter doesn't smirk, doesn't huff, and doesn’t roll his eyes in that way only Hales are capable of. He just takes one step too many into Stiles personal space, head turning a bit to one side that means Peter is regarding him, in this moment at least, as important and equal.

"I highly doubt that any of your thoughts are worth nothing, Stiles."

Stiles needs to break it now before he's breathing heavy for a whole nother reason.

"You should tell that to my Econ teacher, I'm sure he would be happy to inform you otherwise."

“They don’t know you like I do.”

Stiles doesn't think he's talking about Coach anymore, but he lets Peter nudge him towards the bathroom just the same. Peter is standing right at the doorway when he opens it again, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Oh my god, Peter, we talked about this.”

“You’ll overheat in that.”

Stiles shrugs, Peter rolls his eyes and head in that way that is clearly Hale genetics, and heads off to bed. He takes a deep breath, and follows close at his heels before he can talk himself out of it.

Peter’s bedroom is simple. A queen sized sits in the middle with a nightstand adjacent, upon which Clash of Kings is still residing. It’s a huge book, but the bookmark says he’ll be onto the next tomorrow. A small lamp on its warm surface casts just enough soft yellow light to make out a double wide closet, where he assumes all of Peter clothes must be, as there’s no dressers, nothing but a full length mirror hanging to the left of the closet on the opposite wall. There’s a few small paintings, but it’s too dim to make them out. There is nothing even remotely villainous about it. The sheets are the same indigo blue as the thin throw that Stiles usually sleeps under, because Peter Hale is a man of details.

Peter Hale is also stripping down to his black boxer briefs before his very eyes, and Stiles needs to say something before he does or says something truly stupid, like holy god were the abs a requirement or was this just a means of torture.

“This doesn’t look very cavelike at all.”

Peter climbs into one side of the bed without missing a beat, like they do this every day.

“Not a bond villain Stiles.”

Stiles walks around to the far side of the bed, puts his bags by the wall, and crawls in beside him. The sheets are softer than anything he’s ever owned in his life, but they’re just cotton, because silk is stupid and slippery and no should ever cover their bed in it.

Stiles flops his pillow behind him, and the muted grey is coarse in comparison.

“No,” he snorted, snuggling in to get comfortable on one side, “you have better taste.”

He keeps waiting for the anxiety to hit and it doesn’t. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop and it doesn’t. He keeps waiting for his bony hips to get pinched by the springs and it doesn’t, and it dawns on him this is a memory foam mattress.

“Why don’t they make couches out of this?” he sighs, and Peter snorts as he turns out the light. His arm grazes Stiles back as he pulls up the comforter, and Stiles uses the spare pillow to sandwich the blanket down so it doesn’t gape between them. Peter is a side sleeper, just like Stiles is.

Stiles wakes up eight hours later to his phone telling him to get up, but for some reason Stiles can’t reach it. He’s not sleeping on the same side, and that’s definitely not the bed under his stomach.

Holy shit.

“Holy-”

“Stiles. You had a nightmare.”

“Shit.”

“It’s alright, but you wouldn’t settle. This seemed to quiet you down.”

This is a one-word summary for Stiles half lying on top of Peter, his head resting just under the older man’s chin, whose arms are both currently wrapped around Stiles' back.”

“You don’t remember?”

Stiles shakes his head, which is a stupid thing to do because there is chest hair and wow its actually really nice and not all weird like he thought chest hair would one day be.

“I didn’t scream or anything did I?”

“No. Your heartbeat woke me up first. The thrashing woke me up second.”

“Sorry-”

“Stiles.”

“I woke you up.”

_“Stiles.”_

“Got it.”

He can’t believe he had a nightmare, he feels...rested. Even more so than the couch, which always feel like exhaustion on the brink of collapse, a desperate refuel that puts him back on just enough rest to be a sane and functioning member of society. This feels like rest used to, like waking up at 11 am on a Saturday to a text from Scott and not getting out of bed for a whole nother hour just because he can.

It feels nice.

It doesn’t feel awkward.

It feels like he should have more on though.

“Why don’t I have any pants?”

“You overheated, like I said. I was thoroughly impressed with your ability to kick them off and remain unconscious.”

They stay in bed talking long enough that Stiles barely has time to throw on jeans and a shirt and run out the door. Peter stops him with a thermos full coffee so he doesn’t get a migraine from withdrawal. If Stiles thinks Peter looks like he wants to kiss him when he puts the metal caffeine delivery device in his hand, or that they literally just chatted their morning boners away, no one says anything by it.

The hell he gets the moment he locks the Jeep and jumps out of it makes him wish he had given into his longing desire to stay in the cocoon of Peter's memory foam mattress and Egyptian cotton sheets and never leave it till the urge to pee became too great. Which is to say noon.

He tries really desperately to focus all of his thoughts on how great it feels to look in the rearview mirror of his Jeep and not see ten pound bags and sunken eyes looking back.

This lasts less than a minute.

When he turns around to go inside, Scott is already there waiting for him just a few steps away. He's standing next to Kira, and the two of them are smiling. Stiles forces a smile back. Kira and Scott don't smile often unless no one else is looking. They freeze when they see Stiles looking back, like two kids caught necking by someone’s dad.

It's both adorable and sad that that person is Stiles.

"Hey."

"Hey man," and "Good morning Stiles," is said in perfect unison.

He knows they feel guilty, but it’s good. This is good.

"New cologne?" Kira asks innocently as Stiles falls into step beside her. He's never not walked on Scott's other side, his obvious second in the pack.

"No, it’s one of those linen sprays," he shrugs as he opens his locker.

"Oh. It smells nice."

"Thanks,"

Stiles isn't lying either. He never says it isn't his. He never tells them that Peter always keeps the house smelling like something, and whether it’s to ward off whatever Stiles must smell like, or to fend off the triggering scent of hospital chemicals and decay, he's never asked and probably never will.

Scott is doing a stalwart job of smiling anxiously and not saying anything when Stiles suddenly realizes that he didn't even shower this morning after spending who knows how many hours curled up asleep on top of Peter.

He realizes this when Isaac shows up to say hello, but what he really says is "You actually slept with him."

And there is nothing that Stiles can say that both wolves and probably fox won't hear for a lie.

"It’s a big bed," is the only thing Stiles can think of as he leans on the locker door, shutting it with his back while he chugs from the metal thermos of caffeinated delight, which of course is perfect because life is cruel and Peter Hale is apparently good at everything.

Isaac snorts.

"If that’s a euphemism it’s not a very good one."

Stiles chokes on his coffee, and has to stop it with his sleeve as it burns his nose. Now he has a coffee stain to wash out tonight.

"Or maybe he's compensating."

Stiles is glaring at him like he has a backpack full of wolfsbane and its scarf hunting season. He wonders if he could get the piece of fabric off Isaac's stupid neck and stash it at Peter's. He wonders if Peter would call him childish, or just smile and keep reading. Maybe he'd make a witty comment. Or maybe he could get a story out of it about how the Hale family was when they were alive.

"I wouldn't know."

"Oh? Did you use a blind fold? He definitely seems like the kind of guy who would be into that sort of thing."

Scott is looking at his beta with a new brand of horror, and Stiles is just at the point of being unphased by it all.

"The couch is bad for my back," he attempts to explain, wondering if he can text Peter and get actual scientific facts on the dangers of couching it when lo and behold, his half-full coffee thermos is plucked from his grasp by perfectly manicured hands.

"I was wondering when you would realize that," Lydia says simply, taking a sip of his coffee and then looking at it curiously like she's amazed it isn't terrible. "Did you notice how you've been favoring one side lately?" She takes another sip, and Stiles is certain he's not getting it back, but for once, he's also pretty sure he doesn't need it.

Lydia takes him by the arm and walks him away before anyone can comment further.

"You look better than you have in months."

"Yeah."

"This coffee is delicious."

"Yeah, Peter makes it."

"Hm."

She downs the last of it without asking, and hands it back to him. Stiles will gladly sacrifice half of his coffee for Lydia's quick saves any day of the week. However, the downside of being a fully functioning human being again is that you actually notice other people.

"Lydia, why are you helping me? With Peter, I mean. He tried to kill you, he could have turned you, probably would have if you weren't already something. He got in your head and used you to come back to life."

Lydia sits down at their table in AP Chemistry, and picks up Stiles homework from the black slate top to look it over.

"Did you know he set up my birthday party? He told me how to spike the punch, who to invite, when and why, all of it. It wasn't my birthday party, it was his resurrection ritual. I was certain any minute he was going to show up and kill all of us, probably challenge Scott for the pack."

"He never showed up."

"No, he didn't. He could have, he should have."

"What are you trying to say Lydia?" Stiles hisses as the rest of the pack files in. No one comes to Chemistry early without some sort of love of torture, or in Stiles case, a need for privacy.

"I'm saying," she pauses, looking at Scott, and Isaac, and Kira, one by one, before turning back to him, her perfectly glossed lips firm and her strawberry blonde curls bouncing with the movement, "that I don't think he's the same werewolf you killed that night at the Hale house."

She stopped when the doctor as Mrs. King demanded to be called walked in, the classroom going from idle chatter to perfectly still.

Lydia never confirms whether she thinks Peter is a better human being, or simply better at being a monster.

But she does point out his mistakes in problem three before Stiles has to write it out on the board.

Lydia seems to be the beautiful and sassy shield from which all discussions of Peter Hale was tabled until lunch time came again. Stiles has come to dread what used to be the best time in a high schooler’s day more than a teenager probably should. It is criminal to be upset on pizza day.

But Stiles isn't afraid today. Lydia sits down next to him, and Danny takes the other seat moments before Isaac, elbowing the werewolf out of the way and flashing that beautiful smile that is pure Danny and makes you think of puppies and ice cream and all things innocent and good.

"Yes, I slept with Peter. No, we did not have sex. No, we do not have sex. We play chess and have dinner and I talk to him about Allison and everything that's happened over the last few weeks because it doesn't feel like I'm twisting a knife in his gut when I do."

Despite the fact that the food today is the best it will be all week, everyone seems to have lost their appetites.

"I'm not going to try and explain it to you. If he was trying to hurt me or manipulate me in anyway, I will see it coming. If he's up to something, I will tell you. But if any of you tell my father, I swear to whatever being in the sky is responsible for my fucked up life that I will never speak to you again, and will do everything in my power to go to college so far away you couldn't visit me if you tried."

"Stiles!" Scott protests, and amazingly Stiles is able to silence him with one hand held up.

"No, Scott. My dad is not your problem. He's not your pack. He's _my_ family, and if anyone is going to tell him about Peter, it’s going to be me."

"If there's ever anything to tell," Lydia says without even looking at them, pouring over what looks like a book from the Argent family collection while eating an apple.

"If and only if."

The conversation turns back to Kira trying out for lacrosse, and Stiles lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding while Lydia pats him on the back.

The remainder of classes go better than they have in weeks. Stiles is alert and attentive, even with his thoughts doing their now full speed flitting and spinning about into avenues that have nothing to do with class. He makes a quip in Econ that has Coach cackling even while threatening him with The Pop, and even Lydia is smiling at him. Danny nudges him and tells him he looks better with his beauty sleep, and Stiles wonders for a moment if all the questions about his gay attractiveness level have finally worked in his favor.

But Scott won't look at him without his worried puppy face, and Isaac is still making sexual comments all day, and Kira looks even more lost that she has in the past few weeks between Isaac's making every single fucking phrase he utters an innuendo, and Scott glaring at him while pleading silently at Stiles.

Danny offers to give him a few pointers if he's concerned about performing with an experienced lover for the first time when Stiles sprints to his Jeep, texts his dad that he got an A on the quiz in English, and floors the Jeep through the gears.

He checks his side mirror the whole way expecting to see a familiar green dirt bike, and doesn't know whether to relieved or disheartened when it never shows. What would he say to Scott anyway? That the psycho who turned him is the only person Stiles is comfortable being around? That this is the price for staying best friends with a werewolf?

It is simultaneously the best and worst day ever, because being awake means you're also capable of feeling a full range of emotions instead of just varying levels of lethargy, and for the third day in a row he pulls up to the guest parking space of Peter's apartment. He doesn't say a word as he lets himself in and faceplants onto the sofa.

"Stiles, we had a deal."

"I'm not reneging," Stiles says, and no human would be able to hear his voice from where it’s being muffled by the familiar cushion, "This is the flop and sulk of my hatred for everything in the world."

"Everything?"

"Everything outside of here."

"None of your teachers are actively trying to kill you, it could not have been that bad."

"You made me stay in bed too late to shower on purpose, didn't you?"

"You seemed comfortable enough."

"Yeah, well...Kira likes your linen spray."

"So do you."

"Isaac made euphemisms I wasn't aware were possible."

"Scott looks at me like I'm dying all over again."

"He had to know eventually. Is that all you learned today?"

Stiles immediately sits upright ready to regale him about the meaningless yet hysterical tale of Econ, complete with Coach laughing so hard he nearly pulled a stitch, when he realizes that he hasn't actually made a comment like that in months. That he hasn't been himself in months. That Peter makes him more like himself again than he has since before the possession, since the nemeton made a dark space in his heart to swallow up his days. That he wants nothing more than to tell Peter all about it in grave detail, and holy fucking shit Peter actually put down the old leather bound book which he looked completely engrossed in when he walked in, and he's sitting straight up with both feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, and head turned ever so slightly to one side, rapt attention for Stiles to continue so he doesn't miss a single word or gesture of what Stiles has to tell him.

"Oh my god."

Stiles is on his feet and Peter mimics the gesture with perfect ease. His phone hasn't made a sound, and Peter is more than a little confused by the sudden change in topic and behavior.

"Oh. My. God."

"Yes, you said that already. What is it you were going to say before?"

Stiles drops to the floor, knee painfully glancing the coffee table on the way down. The air is really thick, and he feels like it’s too hot to breathe and too cold to think. There's a sharp pain in his arms and a pressure on his chest and the thought that Stiles really should have seen this coming.

"Stiles."

He opens his mouth to say something, but what comes out is a whimper so pathetic he buries his head in his knees because that is not attractive why would Peter even bother with a person who makes sounds like that.

"Stiles, look at me."

He didn't even realize his eyes were closed, but when he opens them Peter's face is inches from his, and even with concern pinching his brows he's so handsome it hurts, and all Stiles can think is that he's sobbing mess on the floor in front of this and god he just wants to bury his head and let the world swallow him up.

"Take a deep breath."

Stiles nods. He can't breathe through his nose because crying is not pretty or dramatic it’s just gross and it pulls his ribcage tighter.

Peter swears and brings something soft to his face.

"Just do it, Stiles."

It’s gross and awful and really Stiles hates his life, but he does and then he breathes and opens his eyes again. Peter is wiping away tears and other less attractive fluids with a stupidly soft handkerchief that he produced from god knows where. It’s certainly better than the coffee-stained sleeve of his hoodie.

"Now tell me what happened."

"I made Coach laugh so hard he nearly pulled a stitch and threated me with a Pop quiz."

Peter is suddenly leaning very close, looking at his eyes like he's checking for some sort of mental illness. He can count the lines around his eyes and the layers of blue within them. He's trying really hard not to look at his mouth.

"And?"

"I was going to tell you about it. But I realized I haven't done anything like that since before," Stiles pretends to gasp for breath because there are somethings he just can't say, but then the words are falling out faster than he can stop them. "and I realized it’s you. I don't know how or why, if you intended to or you just put up with me to get an in with pack, but you brought me back," Stiles is doing a fantastic job studying the soft pile of the carpet because he's too terrified to see Peter's answer on his face. He says every swear he can think of in under a minute, and laughs something dark and unkind. "And now I'm ruining it by opening my stupid mouth."

Peter grabs him by the chin, hard enough that Stiles flinches and Peter has to ease up his grip, his thumb running over the bottom lip he so often watches Stiles chew on before it rubs little circles along the line of his jaw.

"Stiles. I believe that by now we have established that I'm not in fact an unfeeling sociopath."

And then, as if to prove the point, that hand is cupping the back of Stiles' head and bringing their mouths together in a kiss that starts with Peter sucking on Stiles' lower lip till he moans, and ends with Stiles kissing him back, doing things he's always wanted to do like a run a tongue over the roof of the man's mouth, and Peter is the one to pull away, but he doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead on Stiles, and the boy can smell his aftershave, the comforting musk of his cologne, and something like earth that has nothing to do with linen spray and is just Peter. He's breathing just as hard as Stiles is, his lips red and a little swollen. Both of his hands are in Stiles' hair, and it takes him a moment to realize he has one hand gripping Peter's hair and another on the older man's stupidly tight waist.

"You...you?"

Stiles has to ask because Peter is Peter and he can kiss Stiles breath away all he damn well likes, but whatever Peter has a degree in, manipulation is on the fucking diploma.

"Would I be sitting on the floor wiping snot off your face if I didn't?"

Stiles can't help it, he laughs. He laughs until he hurts. He expects a glare when he can open his eyes again, but Peter is just looking at him with some new mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

"For how long?"

Peter smiles, and the flash of teeth and huff of a laugh is at least 80% honest.

"Long enough to get to this."

Stiles leans away the few inches needed to properly glare.

"Those yoga pants were on purpose, weren't they?"

"Oh? And do you have any idea how many objects find their way into your mouth on a daily basis?"

Stiles gulps. He does do the thing with highlighter caps a lot. He's gotten good at it, he likes to show off.

He's about to start freaking out again because holy shit what the hell has he gotten into, when Peter stands up and pulls Stiles along with him. Stiles isn't expecting it, he moves so freaking fast sometimes, and thusly tumbles gracelessly into Peter's chest with a very manly "oomph."

"Food?"

"God yes," Stiles sighs, because panic attacks always make him hungry once he's settled down again. "I want the biggest bacon calzone."

Peter smiles as he reaches for his coat where it’s hanging by the front door.

"Ask and you shall receive."

"What is not doing the dishes?"

Peter rolls his eyes as he locks the door behind them.

"You will still receive dishes."

They do not hold hands at the restaurant, because they are not idiots, and they don't need to. Peter was a theater professor before the fire. Stiles' favorite play is Midsummer Night's Dream, and Peter's is The Tragedy of Dr. Faustus. He claims it will be Stiles' too once he reads it.

Stiles asks him if this was part of his plan all along, and Peter grows serious for just long enough for Stiles to see that maybe Peter doesn't have a plan at all. Eventually he shrugs, pulls his car back into the lot of his apartment building.

Before Stiles can even reach for the seat belt he's being pulled into a kiss that tastes like dr. pepper and marinara sauce, and it lasts only seconds but his heart is pounding again just the same.

"This isn't going to be easy," Stiles says, because it’s obvious but he feels like someone should state the obvious out loud, so he can at least remind himself later that he didn't go into this completely blind.

Peter doesn't give him shit for it though. He just smiles the small but true grin, and the hand behind his head is tracing the pulse at his neck. Maybe to Peter it sounds like the lively flamenco guitar music that he cooks to sometimes.

"Would you truly enjoy it if it were anything less?"

Stiles doesn't say a word, because they both know the answer already. They found it in chess matches and book discussions and long nights filled with nightmares made real and the harsh but necessary reality that all things worthwhile are beautiful, delightful, and deadly in equal measure.

 


End file.
